


You make the cold spots warm

by negi



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Ghosts, M/M, Sharing a Bed, and they were ROOMMATES, side wooil, the subject of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25279000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/negi/pseuds/negi
Summary: Doyoung can talk to ghosts, but really wishes he couldn't. Ghosts are theworst.Taeyong shouldn't be any different, but he is.
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Lee Taeyong
Comments: 63
Kudos: 365
Collections: (let's get away) just the two of us: dotae fan week 2020





	You make the cold spots warm

**Author's Note:**

> partially inspired by that time on ennana when nct said there was a ghost in their old dorm that possessed taeil and made him slam into his closet, but apparently taeil doesn't believe in ghosts anyway. also i'll have you know i almost titled this "take a ghost on a date: call that a paranormal activity" but stopped myself. you're welcome.

Doyoung wakes in the middle of the night to a muffled yet persistent banging; an irregular _thump, thump, thump_ against the shared wall between his and Taeil's bedrooms. With any other roommate in any other situation, Doyoung might assume that something naughty is taking place to create such a rhythmic disturbance at such a late hour. Unfortunately, though, he's pretty sure he knows the true cause of the noise, and it isn't enjoyable for either of them.

At first he tries to ignore it—curls up beneath his bedsheets; stuffs a pillow to one ear and a polar bear plush to another; breathes steady and loud, as if forcing relaxation and sleep to take over his body—but the clattering continues, and from the sound of it, this time it’s a particularly persistent case.

With a frustrated groan and extreme contempt at the thought of opening his eyes, Doyoung shoves his covers aside and rolls out of bed. He rubs at his face and mutters into his palms, not stealing a single glance at the digital clock glowing a dull blue at his side. If he knows what time it is, he might just snap. From a drawer at the base of his wardrobe, he snatches a tightly bound bundle of sage with a huff; from a setup of incense and candles on his desk, he manages to feel around for a match.

The apartment is fairly dark—moonlight coming through the living room window can only just reach the first few paces of the bedroom hallway—and Doyoung’s eyes are puffy with disturbed sleep, but this journey is a familiar one and he makes his way into Taeil’s room without so much as stubbing a toe.

The same certainly can’t be said for his roommate.

Taeil is currently sadly disheveled. His nightshirt hangs off of one shoulder and his hair looks as though it’s just gone through one of his explosive lab experiments, and with every fumbling step he takes, he knocks into the corner of a desk; trips over countless textbooks and reports; even walks repeatedly right into his closet door, which seems to be the source of the specific thumps that woke Doyoung in the first place. His mouth rests open—slightly lax—and his eyes flutter, showing off nothing but whites.

“Out,” Doyoung says, annoyance strong in his words even as his voice cracks with residual sleep.

Taeil hesitates and looks at Doyoung through the darkness. Realization dawns on his face—a look that Doyoung knows well and loathes so, so much—and he begins to stumble towards Doyoung.

“You!” Taeil says excitedly, though his voice is slightly different than usual; a mix of what Doyoung recognizes and what he does not.

Doyoung strikes his match against the nearest wall.

“I’ve been searching for you— _You_ , the one they speak of in whispers. Your kind is so rare nowadays, and I almost gave up searching, but—”

Without hesitation, Doyoung lights the tips of his sage on fire and extinguishes the match with a tired flick of the wrist.

“Oh, my hope has prevailed! Please, gifted one, I need your help—”

“Shut the _hell_ up,” Doyoung deadpans. With just enough care not to singe Taeil’s hair, he shoves the burning sage into his roommate’s face and waves the smoke around his body with little flourish; straight to the point and not having it one bit.

Taeil practically hisses and jumps away, but he trips on his own clutter and falls backwards onto his bed. Doyoung takes the upper hand and pins Taeil down with his free hand on a shoulder and his knee trapping a leg in place.

“Please!” Taeil begs desperately. “I need you to help me pass on! No one else will listen— No one else can hear me!”

“Do I look like your mother?” Doyoung snaps, holding the sage so close to Taeil’s nose that he starts to cough and choke. “Figure out what you’re regretting on your own.”

Taeil wails loudly and Doyoung’s eyes fall shut as he thinks about the noise complaint coming their way the next day. Suddenly Taeil starts vibrating and squirming, and Doyoung has to climb up on the bed so he can use both legs to hold his roommate’s body in place and protect him from this thrashing nonsense. After a short-lived battle of wills with Doyoung refusing to budge, Taeil’s head shoots back and a chill begins to settle into the room.

A wisp of air—something clear and misty; barely visible with a subtle glow surrounding its edges—flies out of Taeil’s mouth and swirls in the air above their heads. A few seconds later, the discernable visage of a balding middle-aged man in a suit and tie drops down onto the bed and clasps his hands together.

“Please, I’m just a lowly salaryman,” he begs. “I have no one to turn to.”

The man isn’t a looker, that’s for sure. Though mostly transparent, subtle colors in his clothing still show through, revealing dirty patches and sweat stains. His skin is void of any injury (Doyoung’s come to discover that physical harm doesn’t show itself on one’s spiritual counterpart), but wrinkles and sunspots give him a pretty clear idea of how little the man took care of himself. His hair is a really bad jet black toupée, which is something that apparently _does_ follow you into the afterlife. Maybe he was just that attached to it.

Regardless of how the man chose to present himself, Doyoung can tell immediately that he is—was—the type to never do anything on his own and then blame others for his shortcomings. Even in death, he’s trying to get Doyoung to fix his problem for him.

Still lying on the bed beneath Doyoung, Taeil groans as he falls into a deep sleep; his mind is finally at peace. He’ll have a hell of a headache come morning and he’ll definitely wonder out loud at breakfast where all his new bruises came from while Doyoung just shrugs and stares into his cereal, but that’s routine, and Doyoung can handle routine. What he doesn’t have any tolerance for, is _this_.

Doyoung makes eye contact with the man and sees a flash of hope in his bulging eyes, and he is _so_ going to enjoy crushing it like a bug under his shoe.

“You hurt my friend,” he says. _“Out.”_ Almost like swinging a baseball bat, Doyoung winds up his arm and _wacks_ the air with his bushel of sage and watches—satisfied—as the man goes flying off the bed, across the room, and right through the wall, leaving no trace of his presence in sight.

Quickly but carefully, Doyoung climbs off of Taeil and heads straight for the window. There’s a small ledge on the inside wall meant for flowers, probably, but Doyoung had gifted Taeil potted sage of his own and urged him with an overly-friendly smile to keep it alive at all costs. The plant seems to be in good condition, so he turns his attention to the assortment of crystals and gems he’d personally placed along the ledge (“Yes, another gift— No, don’t move them. They look nice there.”) and sure enough, one of them is broken. Taeil probably knocked it over and didn’t want to make Doyoung feel bad by telling him.

Truth is, Doyoung couldn’t care less about the rocks. But after begrudgingly doing some research into a field that he would probably find phony if he were literally anyone else, he knows that this specific arrangement of stones is best for keeping out other… _unwanted visitors_ , like the man from tonight. He’ll have to replace Taeil’s broken gem soon. For now, though, he just tucks his roommate back into bed and heads to his own room with heavy, dragging feet.

He extinguishes his sage on a ceramic bowl given to him by his brother—it was meant to be a nice decorative piece but sorry, bro; necessity calls—and collapses on top of his sheets. As tired as he is, though, the thought of specifically being sought after never fails to majorly creep him out and he lies awake, disturbed, for at least another hour.

Then the clattering from next door resumes. Doyoung groans into his polar bear and kicks his feet in tantrum-like fury. 

_“I fucking hate ghosts.”_

｀、ヽ｀ヽ｀、ヽ

“I woke up with some really weird bruises,” Taeil remarks as Doyoung speeds into the kitchen the next morning; casually, as if Doyoung isn’t stumbling over his own mismatched socks and nearly plowing into the refrigerator.

“Uh-huh. Crazy,” Doyoung says absently. He rummages in their pantry for anything quick to eat—energy bars, crackers, stale granola—but they haven’t gone grocery shopping in a while and it’s showing. He ends up shoving their last slice of bread—an end piece, of course—into the toaster and starts scraping the remaining strawberry jelly from the bottom of its jar with a knife.

Taeil taps his chin. “Maybe I’m sleepwalking?” he wonders out loud. “I have a colleague doing sleep studies on the floor above my lab. I should see what she has to say.”

Doyoung grabs a paper towel and snatches his steaming toast as soon as it pops up. “Maybe you got possessed by a ghost,” he says humorlessly as he dumps the glob of jelly onto his pathetic breakfast.

Taeil laughs loudly around a bite of day-old stew. “Yeah,” he snorts, “and my dad is Godzilla.” After observing Doyoung scarf down his toast in under thirty seconds and drink the rest of their milk straight from the carton, Taeil asks, “Running late?”

Doyoung gasps loudly for air as he wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his baby blue sweater. “Slept through my alarm,” he says while tossing the empty milk carton in the general direction of their recycling bin. “Couldn’t, uh, fall asleep last night.”

“Oh,” Taeil says, “so did you hear any noises from my room? Was I really sleepwalking?”

Doyoung shrugs and adjusts the messenger bag slung across his body—a non-answer, really, but Taeil takes the motion at face value—and swerves around his roommate’s chair in the tiny kitchen. _“Curious,”_ he can hear Taeil mutter as he turns the corner to the front hall and shoves his feet into his shoes.

“See you,” Doyoung calls, effectively cutting off any further conversation because he really needs to go and he can’t deal with Taeil asking him more questions right now. He doesn’t get a response back, but he knows better than to take it to heart. Once Taeil boards a train of thought, hardly anything can make him disembark.

There’s a bus stop at the end of their street that services a few lines: the 1 heads further into the city in the direction of a trendy shopping center; the 7 is mostly populated by college students heading to and from a nearby campus—Doyoung and Taeil’s alma mater, where the latter is currently working on a master’s degree in some scientific field that Doyoung never wants to understand—that Doyoung used to take nearly every day; now, though, his chosen bus is the number 12. He sees it waiting just past the stop, halted at a red light, and thanks the god he may or may not believe in (it’s complicated) that today’s driver is one to take mercy on desperate looking passengers. Only when he’s sinking into a perfectly-molded plastic seat can Doyoung catch his breath.

Relief—though refreshing—is unfortunately short-lived, because Doyoung gets a text from his coworker when he still has five minutes left on his commute reminding him of a meeting they have scheduled in ten.

 _[ lol did u sleep in again? ]_ Jeno asks.

Doyoung’s blood runs cold, because of _course_ he’s late to work on a rare day where people other than Jeno will notice if he’s missing. Normally he can keep to himself in an office tucked into a far corner of the museum— small but not cramped; comfortable and not stifling. He does his job well with the freedom of being left the hell alone because who, aside from a very sweet intern, would bother going out of their way to visit him? (Jeno sometimes remarks that Doyoung should think higher of himself, and that’s very nice of him to say, but Doyoung already knows that he’s great. He just prefers having dramas playing in the background while he works and he does not like interruptions).

 _[ stall for me T_T ]_ Doyoung writes back, following his message up immediately with a crying emoji to enunciate just how rough of a morning he’s had.

Jeno—an absolute angel of a college junior; rare and beautiful, like a unicorn—agrees, and informs Doyoung that a couple other people are still trickling into the meeting room themselves. _[_ _i can spill one of the coffee jugs all over the table ]_ Jeno offers, and Doyoung thinks he could cry.

 _[ thanks lmao but i should make it just in time ]_ Doyoung assures him. But the coffee isn’t a bad idea, if it comes down to that.

The automated voice over the bus’s speaker system announces Doyoung’s stop coming up next, so he stands and waits by the back door impatiently, fidgeting with his denim jacket and patting his bag to triple check that he had closed it after putting his phone away. As soon as the bus hisses to a standstill and swings its narrow doors open, Doyoung leaps onto the sidewalk and immediately sidesteps a mother pushing a stroller with a hurried apology.

His normal route beyond this point is through a small park—no playgrounds in sight, but plenty of greenery and benches that serve for a nice breath of fresh air during one’s lunch break—and usually it’s a pleasant walk; a last bit of freedom before clocking in. Today, though, Doyoung runs. He forgoes the sidewalk at first and cuts across a grassy field until his feet hit pavement once again as he reaches an old stone fountain situated at an intersection of bike paths and cement slabs. A little dog tries to nip at his heels playfully, but he hurries onward.

There aren’t many people who can afford to relax in a park at this time of day during the work week so Doyoung thinks he has a chance of making it to his meeting on time, but a sudden vibration from his bag sends a shiver of dread through his bones. He grabs his phone and unlocks it as he runs, though he slows to a jog like a semi-responsible pedestrian.

 _[ omg sorry hyung… TT ]_ Jeno says. _[ the director came out of nowhere and asked where you were… i panicked and said you’re in your office and i’d go get you… please hurry TTTTT ]_

Receiving a scolding himself, Doyoung can handle; but the thought of Jeno getting chewed out for covering for his tardy ass is just unacceptable. Poor kid’s probably pacing nervously in Doyoung’s office waiting for his punishment to come knocking at the door.

 _[ almost there ]_ Doyoung assures. _[ just go back to the meeting and i’ll be late, it’s oka_ — _]_

“Oof!”

Doyoung rams into something firm and pointed, collision leaving him momentarily stunned and confused. He puts a hand to his chest where the sudden contact was made and glances up from his phone with wide eyes, just long enough to notice a man clutching his shoulder. He looks equally surprised, but not in any pain.

_What?_

“Sorry!” Doyoung shouts, already stepping away. He bows his head at the man—young, skinny, hair a shocking white—then spins on his heel and books it to the main street at the edge of the park. His heart is racing and his entire being feels jostled, but he doesn’t have time to get embarrassed about running headfirst into a stranger. He sends his text to Jeno and hops from foot to foot at a crosslight blinking red, workplace in sight just on the other side of painted white lines.

_Who… who was that?_

｀、ヽ｀ヽ｀、ヽ

Doyoung never mentions this out loud on account of being looked at funny when he tried to bring it up to Taeil one night at dinner, but lately he’s been feeling like he’s never really alone, even when he is. It started about a week ago—slowly at first; the sensation of being watched edging upon his conscience like a thought he can’t quite remember—and by now, he _swears_ that someone is following him to and from work. He has no idea why this would be happening, but in his mind there can be no other explanation for the goosebumps that raise along the back of his neck when he walks through the park, or how often he gets the urge to whip around and stare at ultimately empty hallways between his office and any restroom in the building.

He assumes it’s a ghost—he’s unfortunately been followed by some before—but usually they make themselves known right away because they want something from him, and their desires always get put above his own comfort. Ghosts are selfish like that. For some reason, though, this one only lurks in the shadows and observes quietly. It’s unnerving, but he so does hope it really is a ghost and not a living human. Those can be even _worse_.

The thought of alerting the authorities swims around in his brain for a bit, but he decides against doing it. He tried calling the cops once, way back in high school when he first made contact with a ghost in his childhood bedroom, but he quickly hung up before the phone operator could transfer him to a psychiatrist.

By this point he’s taken to spending as much work time in his office as he can (very normal) even when freshly catered food is sitting in the staff room, waiting to be eaten (less normal). It seems that whatever’s stalking him doesn’t want to get too close, and for once he’s thankful for being shafted with one of the smallest offices in the building. He’s also thankful for Jeno.

“Hey, hyung,” Jeno calls from outside. “I brought lunch! Can you get the door? I don’t have hands.”

Doyoung’s stomach growls and he rushes to let his precious, favorite intern in. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, but he’s already relieving one of the plates from Jeno’s possession.

Jeno nudges the door shut and sits in an extra chair. “I wanted to make sure you’re eating,” he says. “You, like, never take breaks anymore.”

“I take plenty of breaks,” Doyoung says around a mouthful of lukewarm noodles. “I just take them in here now.”

Jeno crosses one leg over another to balance his own plate on his lap and opens the foil on a roll of kimbap. “How come?”

“Oh, no reason,” Doyoung lies.

“Really?” Jeno asks. “You’ve been looking way more on edge than usual, though. I’m here if you need to talk about something, you know?”

 _Bless this kid, honestly._ Doyoung sighs— the reality of getting this off his chest is just too enticing. Finally, he says, “I think another one is hanging around.”

“Oh!” Jeno says, a bit too excitedly. Doesn’t he know this is not good news? “You mean a ghost!”

 _“Yes,_ a ghost,” Doyoung says in a hushed voice. “You know, that thing we don’t talk about at work because people will think I’m fucking bonkers?”

“Sorry,” Jeno says, but he’s grinning; his eyes are in those adorable little crescent shapes and, dammit, Doyoung can’t be mad at him. “What does this one look like?”

“Dunno,” Doyoung says as he continues eating. “I haven’t actually _seen_ it. Don’t know what it wants, either.”

Jeno tries to speak with his mouth full, but Doyoung shoots him a look so he finishes chewing before repeating himself. “Maybe it was brought in with the new artifacts we got recently. We’re always surrounded by old stuff. I’m surprised this hasn’t happened already.”

Doyoung shakes his head. “Nah, when I first started here I got rid of all the ones lingering around and ghost-proofed the building.”

Jeno’s eyes practically sparkle. “How did you do _that?”_ he asks.

Doyoung’s nose wrinkles, like he just smelled something unpleasant. “There were so many of them, I had to hire an exorcist. Shit was expensive, but after all the ghosts that bugged me throughout uni whenever I went to exhibits and old libraries to work on projects, I was not about to go through that at work too.” Jeno looks like he wants to ask how the _heck_ one even finds an exorcist, so Doyoung adds, “I have a friend who’s super deep in magical witchy stuff.” He wiggles his fingers for emphasis. “Ten, you remember him? He hooked me up with some priest from Italy. I don’t know how he makes his connections, and I don’t think I wanna know.”

Jeno nods and eats in silence for a moment. “But hyung,” he says slowly. “If you made sure that ghosts couldn’t come into our museum, how could one be following you here?”

It’s such a simple question, and Doyoung is an idiot for not asking it himself. How _could_ a ghost be inside a building that he knows for a fact is reinforced with enough holy bullshit within its walls to ward off an actual demon, should those exist? (He’s really hoping they don’t, but if they _do…_ his little office would be safe). Maybe it really has been all in his head. Maybe he’s stressed and overthinking, as he tends to do. He should relax.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right.”

“Don’t worry so much, hyung,” Jeno assures him. “I don’t think there are any ghosts here.”

Doyoung is not too prideful to admit that his upper body strength is lacking. He’s been meaning to exercise a little, of course, but he just has _work_ and all that. He always tells his ripped older brother that he’ll get around to it—honest—and today he really, really wishes he’d actually made good on that promise.

He’s in the middle of paying for groceries—bags upon bags of things they desperately need—when he gets a text from Taeil, saying that he’ll be spending the night at his lab. The young cashier is waiting for him to swipe his membership card with loud, deliberate smacks of her bubblegum and he would really rather not starve that night, so Doyoung is forced to haul four bulging canvas bags down three blocks and up four flights of stairs on his own (the elevator in their building is constantly broken, of course). Once he reaches their door, he drops his bags with a defeated groan and just prays that the eggs survived.

He stands there in the empty hallway for a moment to catch his breath and massage his throbbing forearms. Sweat is beading on his forehead and the unpleasant feeling makes him shudder, like a chill just ran over his body. With one more stretch of his back, he straightens up and fishes his key out of his messenger bag with a mental note to drop any extra weight off at home first the next time he decides to make a “quick” trip to the market after work.

He inserts his key without paying any mind to the door itself—only listening for the telltale _click_ that will let him inside—and maybe if he had, he would’ve noticed the light sooner; not obvious, but still shining through the crevice above the threshold. Instead, it isn’t until he nudges the door open with his hip and bends down to grab his bags that he sees the warm glow now spilling out onto the muted grey carpet of the hall.

“...Taeil?” he calls, but there is no answer. It’s very likely that his brilliant yet scatterbrained roommate simply forgot to turn off the light when he left, but walking into an empty apartment that doesn’t look like it should be empty is still a little off-putting. He shakes his head and lugs the groceries into the kitchen, and makes sure to lock the door behind him.

Nothing is amiss inside, so they weren’t robbed, at least. Doyoung snorts— they didn’t even have cereal that morning; what is there to rob? He begins putting perishables into the fridge and sorting them the best he can, tossing anything old or unrecognizable and wiping down some questionable spills in the backs of shelves. He’s so focused on the quiet hum of the refrigerator that a distant _thump_ breaks his concentration and makes his heart skip a beat in confusion.

He hesitates.

Silence.

A shrug, and he continues.

He’s just put away the final cold item when the sound of a kitchen chair being knocked out of place mere inches away—sudden and loud; might as well be blaring across a sound system—has his stomach plummeting to the ground. With a burst of adrenaline, he slams the fridge door shut and spins on his heel and stares—wide-eyed—at the space behind him. A scream rips from his throat when he really does see someone standing there; a stranger in his house staring right back at him— hair white and pupils a piercing black.

Doyoung reaches to his left in a panic, heart racing and breath stuttering. He manages to yank a drawer open and pulls out a small knife and tries to steady his shaking hand. The man eyes the knife and takes a half step back.

_He really sees me._

“Who are you!” Doyoung shouts. He doesn’t know what else to say; what else to do. He’s alone with this man and his phone is out of reach on the kitchen table, closer to the stranger than to himself. When he gets no response, Doyoung yells again: “What do you want?”

_Will he hear me, too?_

The man takes a step forward, and Doyoung backs up against the fridge.

“Don’t touch me!” Doyoung grabs at the bag at his feet and throws the first item he can get a grip on: chips. He misses, so he launches a box of pasta straight at the man’s chest— it phases right through.

There’s a pause, then Doyoung grows angry.

“You—” he hisses. He stands tall and squints at the man—observes him carefully—and sure enough, Doyoung finally notices the faintest blur along the man’s silhouette; faded edges that give away the transparent nature of his ghostly body, if only ever so slightly. Had Doyoung not known any better, he would think a pure, flesh and blood human were standing before him. He throws the useless knife to the ground in a huff. It clatters loudly.

“Get out,” Doyoung snaps.

“No, wait—”

 _“Ugh._ Can’t I have a full 24 hours without being bothered by one of you?” Doyoung begins to shove the remaining groceries into the pantry. “I’m giving you a chance to go on your own, so hurry up before I force you out.”

_Please…_

“Sometimes I wonder if I should have used all that priest money to ghost-proof the apartment instead,” Doyoung mutters hotly. “But I still lose, either fucking way.” He faces the man again and his eyes fall on the items he had thrown laying sadly on the floor.

_Please!_

Doyoung stomps towards the man and reaches out for the dented box of pasta. “Are you listening to me? I told you to leave—”

_“Oof!”_

Both men let out a broken grunt when Doyoung slams full force into the intruder. Doyoung stumbles back and is rendered speechless for a moment, shock evident on his face. He’s a ghost. That shouldn’t happen.

“Taeyong,” the man says.

Doyoung’s mouth just opens and closes wordlessly, eyebrows furrowing.

“You asked my name. It’s Taeyong.”

Doyoung wonders if this is all a sick joke. He and Taeyong are seated now, observing each other on opposite sides of the small kitchen table, and the minutes continue dragging by in silence as Doyoung tries to understand what the hell is going on. Maybe demons really do exist, and Taeyong is one of them, and all those exaggerated claims of safety from that priest were a scam. He's definitely good looking enough to be a creature made for tempting people into sin.

“Why don’t you run that by me one more time,” Doyoung says, hoping to catch Taeyong in a lie. This just isn’t adding up.

“Okay,” Taeyong says obediently. “But I already told you, there’s not much to say…”

“Humor me,” Doyoung says dryly.

Taeyong folds his hands on the table, as if this were a job interview. “It’s been hard for me to keep track of time, but three—maybe four?—months ago I woke up in a field in the countryside. I don’t know how I got there. I can’t remember anything but my first name. I realized that no one could see or hear me, so I figured I must be dead. Other ghosts—I know they’re ghosts because they go through walls and people whenever they want, which seems a little rude—can talk to each other, but not to me. I’m always ignored.” Taeyong’s deep, dark eyes bore into Doyoung. “Until you.”

Even the second time around, this specification gives Doyoung chills.

“I can interact with things around me when I want to,” Taeyong goes on, and that’s not something Doyoung has ever seen another ghost do. “I turned on your lights so you wouldn’t be so frightened by me! Though I don’t know if it really helped... Anyway, inanimate objects are okay—” He motions at the chair that his butt is currently sitting in. “—but I’ve never been able to touch living creatures.”

Doyoung’s lips purse as he thinks.

“Until you,” Taeyong adds.

 _“Yes,_ I can see that,” Doyoung says. “Well— feel it. Felt it at the park, too, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Taeyong insists, eyes growing concerned. “I thought you would go right through me, so I didn’t bother moving. I never expected to…”

Doyoung waves his hand, brushing that bit of the conversation aside for the time being. “You’ve been following me, haven’t you?” he asks. “Somehow, you got into my work and you watched me from the shadows. Why?”

Taeyong scratches at his cheek. He has a sizable scar next to his right eye. “Well…” Taeyong says slowly. “Like I said, I don’t remember anything about my life. I don’t even know my own age or blood type— but I guess those don’t matter anymore.” He laughs softly, and Doyoung grows slightly annoyed at how nonchalant this unwelcome presence is being.

"And?” Doyoung presses, crossing his arms. “You want me to go out of my way and figure out your past for you?”

Taeyong blinks. "Oh, um… No, that's not what…"

Doyoung squints and leans forward against the table. "So why are you here?"

Taeyong pauses; looks like he's only just now considering the answer to that. "I think…” he says. “I think I just wanted to say hi?”

This catches Doyoung off guard. No ghost has ever wanted to simply have a conversation with him. He sits back up. "Oh."

Taeyong smiles sheepishly, one corner of his mouth curling slightly higher than the other. “It’s really lonely when you have no one to talk to. The moment you ran into me in the park— I just thought that I couldn’t let you go.”

For some reason, that makes Doyoung feel… nice? It’s nice to be needed by a ghost in this kind of way when he’s grown so accustomed to being used for selfish personal gain. It also throws him off his usual routine of banishing ghosts without mercy, so he’s honestly not quite sure what to do now.

“Uh,” he says, “so… _Do_ you need help passing on? Should I, like… call someone?” He has no idea who he would even call. Ten, maybe?

Taeyong, again, looks like he hasn’t thought this far ahead. “No,” he eventually decides. “I don’t think so? I can’t remember if there’s anyone I would miss, or anything I should have done. I don’t know if I was a good person, or a criminal. To leave this world when I feel like I haven’t lived in it… that’s kind of sad, don’t you think?”

Doyoung supposes it must be a strange feeling; not knowing what your existence means.

“I think I would like to try it out,” Taeyong says.

“Try what out?” Doyoung asks.

Taeyong smiles widely this time. “Living.”

｀、ヽ｀ヽ｀、ヽ

The first few days of Taeyong hanging around the apartment throw Doyoung for a loop. He—of course— _knows_ that a ghost is waiting for him at home, but being aware of something and walking straight into it while making a beeline for your bed after a long day of work are two very different things. Taeyong always apologizes for not moving out of the way, but he never seems to want to leave Doyoung’s side, if he can help it. (Doyoung banned Taeyong from following him outdoors for his own sanity, but inside, Taeyong might as well be velcroed to his shadow).

Routines tend to form rather quickly, though, and It isn’t long until Doyoung comes to expect Taeyong’s greeting as he enters the apartment every day. He only responds out in the open if he knows that Taeil isn’t home, but once he holes himself in his bedroom for the rest of the evening—Taeyong hovering behind him the whole way down the hall—he turns on some music to drown out any suspicion and lets himself chat with this man that no one else can see.

Taeyong is a good listener and always knows the perfect time to make little noises—some affirmative, some cute and bubbly—that assure Doyoung his stories aren’t being told in vain. When he rants, Taeyong looks apologetic; like he’s genuinely sorry that something had to go wrong.

Today is a ranting day. Doyoung doesn’t bother drowning out his words with music because Taeil is currently off visiting a friend for dinner in the next town over. He drops his bag on the floor, sits heavily on his unmade bed, and lets out a frustrated sigh that sounds like it’s been trapped in his throat for hours.

“Rough day?” Taeyong asks, in case Doyoung wants to let it out.

He does. “I spent literally half of my work day on the phone with a stay-at-home soccer mom with nothing better to do with her time than insist— _over and over again_ —that she has a painting that she’s positive is _extremely valuable_ ,” Doyoung huffs. He shrugs off his jacket and lets it fall into a heap on the floor. “I told her that’s great, but we don’t do appraisals. I tried to refer her to different auction houses five times but no; they’ll _surely_ take advantage of a simple housewife and try to force her to sell such a _coveted_ piece.”

Taeyong doesn’t know much about what goes on behind the scenes at museums, but from the frustration in Doyoung’s voice, he can deduce that this was a classic situation of a stubborn customer making an employee’s life a living hell. He sits on the bed next to Doyoung, silently urging him to continue.

“It’s not my job— it isn’t _anyone’s_ job to make house calls at some random civilian’s home and inspect a painting their dead uncle left buried in his attic,” Doyoung says. He scoffs. “Those things are always shit, anyway. I don’t know why people think we’d put them up on our walls next to Warhol.”

“If someone who works at a museum is telling you how something art-related works…,” Taeyong says slowly, “...shouldn’t you listen to them?”

“Exactly!” Doyoung exclaims, whipping around towards Taeyong. He jerks forward and practically pushes their noses together, making Taeyong’s eyes widen in surprise. “I know what I’m doing! I’m good at my job! Would _you_ question an expert when you’re clueless about the topic at hand?”

Taeyong shakes his head, careful not to jostle Doyoung’s nose. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Well, I could have been an idiot when I was alive.”

“Right.” Doyoung leans back, though he remains closer to Taeyong than he was before. He shuts his eyes. “I just— I _hate_ when people undermine my authority. _I_ went to school for this. _I_ put in the work to get where I am right now. It’s about respect, you know? And basic common sense.”

Taeyong nods. This is the first time since they’ve met that he’s seen Doyoung look so worn out and mentally exhausted. He wishes he could do something, but being a ghost automatically snatches that option right out of his— Hands. He looks down at his practically opaque fingers; clenches them into fists and releases them.

“Sometimes I wonder what the hell I have to do for people to take me seriously.”

Taeyong reaches an arm up slowly.

“Not even just over the phone, but in person, too. In meetings and at events. I look young—I am young—and people treat me like I don’t know what I’m doing, but I _do._ It’s so—”

Taeyong presses a palm to Doyoung’s back, soft and non-threatening; just strong enough to guide Doyoung down into his lap, jet black hair tickling the skin of Taeyong’s thighs.

Doyoung’s eyes flutter open and his words immediately die in his throat. Time seems to come to a standstill—even the air freezes in place, thickening around them—until Taeyong gasps and removes his hand, holding it up nervously like he just got caught touching a priceless antique. As excited as he’s been to have human interaction again, the amount of physical touch he allows himself to initiate with Doyoung stops at bumping shoulders or accidentally tripping over each other’s feet.

“I’m sorry,” Taeyong says quickly.

_Don’t hate me._

“I’m— It’s cold, right? I’m probably not comfortable.”

_I crossed a line._

Doyoung pulls himself upright and Taeyong’s heart would sink if he could still feel it thrumming in his chest. But instead of being disgusted or disturbed, Doyoung merely grabs a pillow from the head of his bed, places it on Taeyong’s thighs, and settles back down.

“You’re so boney,” Doyoung says, but it’s the only complaint he makes before launching back into his story. After about a minute he notices that Taeyong’s hand is still hovering awkwardly above him, so he adds, “Your hands aren’t cold, you know. I’ve never noticed any cold spots around you, actually.”

Taeyong tentatively chooses to see that as permission and lowers his hand again, placing his fingertips gently on Doyoung’s forehead and watching for a negative reaction. Doyoung doesn’t give him one, so he drags his hand back and cards through Doyoung’s hair over and over again, slow and rhythmic as Doyoung talks. Doyoung relaxes in his lap and his words grow less anxious and harsh, and Taeyong feels himself smiling.

Taeyong doesn’t technically need to sleep, but he finds comfort in the action of closing his eyes and letting his mind wander. Sometimes he reaches a dream-like state where thoughts—none of them his own, as far as he knows—flood his consciousness with entertainment, and when he wakes he feels refreshed and perky.

It’s also gotten a lot more enjoyable ever since Doyoung told him: _“Just share my bed with me— it’s awkward knowing that you’re out there alone on the couch. I feel like a bad host.”_ He does so hate being alone, and Doyoung doesn’t mind when Taeyong hogs one of his stuffed animals to hug at night, or when he curls up a little closer to Doyoung under the covers.

Occasionally he’s jostled back to reality in the middle of the night when Doyoung has to get up and shoo an uninvited guest out of the house, and he always looks so annoyed and tired that Taeyong soon offers to handle the other ghosts for him. It’s beneficial, really, that ghosts can’t see him, because he can sneak up from behind and dispel them back through the walls before they even have a chance to see the sage smoke wafting around their bodies. Sure it’s a bit of a hassle, but knowing that he’s the reason Doyoung doesn’t wake up with eye bags and a frown anymore feels nice. It’s nice to be needed and known.

Today, though, Taeyong isn’t woken by Doyoung cursing and stumbling out of bed. There’s light streaming through the open curtains so it’s already daytime, but it’s definitely before 10, and that’s not very normal for weekend-Doyoung. And yet there Doyoung is, rubbing a towel over his freshly washed hair as he returns from the bathroom, singing to himself in a light, pretty voice.

Taeyong sits up in bed and rubs at his eyes— a leftover habit from his human days, he assumes. “Are you going somewhere?” he asks.

Doyoung nods. “I’m meeting Jeno for lunch and a movie,” he says, and his smile sits heavy in Taeyong’s chest.

“That intern from your work?” Taeyong asks.

“Mhmm,” Doyoung hums as he opens his closet and examines his clothes.

Taeyong fiddles with the bedsheets. “I didn’t know you were so close,” he says casually. “To meet on a day off, I mean.”

“Oh, yeah,” Doyoung says. “We go way back. We were neighbors when he was in elementary school, so I used to play with him all the time. His family moved away before he started high school, but he ended up going to my university and our majors coincided a lot, so I tutored him and helped him out with life stuff.”

Taeyong can see Doyoung grinning through the mirror on his closet door.

“He’s basically, like, my honorary cousin or something,” Doyoung says. “Someone you always wanna take care of, you know?”

This makes Taeyong less nervous, for some reason. “It sounds nice to have a relationship like that,” he says honestly.

Doyoung sighs. “The only problem is, I feel so _old_ when I’m with him sometimes. Just in the way he carries himself and knows lots of trendy things—” He pauses, then rubs at the back of his neck. “Is it stupid to care about how I dress to hang out with a friend?”

Taeyong shakes his head and floats over to Doyoung. “No!” he insists. “I think clothes are really fun. You can wear whatever you want, in any way you want, to express yourself.”

Doyoung looks at Taeyong. “...Do you want more clothes?” he asks.

The question catches Taeyong off guard. “Me?”

“Yeah,” Doyoung says. “When you showed up you were just in a T-shirt and jeans, and even now you just wear my clothes. By this point we know that anything you wear on your body turns invisible with you, so do you want something of your own?” He glances away, back at his closet; like he’s avoiding his own offer. “I mean, I never know when I’ll want that shirt back, so…”

Taeyong feels like he could float around the room, but he resists for the time being. “I wouldn’t mind it,” he admits, “but this isn’t about me right now!” He peeks around Doyoung at the clothes draped neatly over their hangers, dangling side by side; open invitations to mix and match to their hearts’ contents. “Let’s have some fun.”

“Doyoung, you decent?” Taeil calls as he knocks on Doyoung’s bedroom door an hour later. Doyoung gives him a noise of confirmation, so he lets himself in. “I’m going on a date with Woo tonight and my face is still bloated from my all-nighter. Do you have—” He interrupts himself with a whistle when he takes Doyoung’s outfit in.

Doyoung locks eyes with Taeil through his full length mirror. “Too much?” he asks. He’d managed to squeeze into a pair of skinny jeans—already an article he rarely wears, for comfort’s sake—with tactful tears in the legs that he bought during a bout of bravery years ago but never wore since. A simple white T-shirt is tucked into the waistband and a (faux) leather jacket given to him by Jeno himself hangs over his broad shoulders.

“Definitely not too much,” Taeil says, circling Doyoung with an impressed stare. “I’m just not used to seeing you like this. You look really good.” He nudges Doyoung’s arm and grins. “Trying to impress someone?”

Doyoung laughs. “Yeah, a 20 year old.”

Taeil laughs with him. “Oh, good luck with _that_.”

Doyoung shrugs off the jacket for now and closes his closet door. “What were you saying before?”

Taeil’s eyes widen, like he already forgot what he came to Doyoung’s room for (and honestly, he probably did). “My date,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Do you have some fake glasses I can borrow? I just need to try and hide the fact that I haven’t slept in two months.”

“You know Jungwoo’s gonna see right through this,” Doyoung says, but he heads to a drawer in his dresser anyway. Inside sits about ten pairs of spectacles of different frame styles, colors, and sizes. At his side, Taeyong raises an eyebrow and Doyoung raises one back— _‘I don’t buy a lot of accessories, okay. Let me have this.’_

“Which one should I pick…” Taeil murmurs.

“What are you wearing?” Doyoung asks.

Taeil shrugs. “I dunno, nothing fancy. Maybe jeans and a hoodie.”

“He should dress up if this is a date,” Taeyong says with a slight pout.

Ignoring Taeyong, Doyoung says, “These thin silver frames go with everything.”

“No, spice his boring outfit up!” Taeyong insists, hovering by Doyoung’s ear. “Wear the gold!”

“What about these square ones?” Taeil asks.

“Tell him round frames suit his face shape better.”

Doyoung plasters on a smile. “Hyung, the round ones are—”

 _“Oh,_ look at those red ones! How come you’ve never worn those, Doyoung?”

“They’re too flashy,” Doyoung hisses.

“You think?” Taeil asks, setting the pair in his hands back.

“No, sorry— Not you,” Doyoung stutters.

Taeyong reaches for a pair of clear, chunky frames. “Give him these—”

Doyoung’s hand zooms into the drawer and grabs Taeyong’s wrist before he can pull the glasses out. The sudden movement makes Taeil jump, but it’s better than him witnessing an object seemingly floating in midair.

“These!” Doyoung almost shouts, shoving Taeyong’s pick into Taeil’s hand. “Definitely these.”

“Okay, thanks!” Taeil says. His mind must already be thinking ahead to something else, because he leaves Doyoung’s room without commenting on his roommate’s strange behavior.

Once the door shuts, Doyoung spins to look at Taeyong. Taeyong is clearly trying not to laugh, but there’s no hiding the roundness of his cheeks or the mirth in his eyes.

“Not funny!” Doyoung whines, tossing his leather jacket at Taeyong.

Taeyong catches it and lets out a giggle. “You didn’t see your face.”

Doyoung—so easily riled up by Taeyong’s taunting—pushes Taeyong onto the bed and puts a pillow over his head, but Taeyong turns ghostly and phases through it with a triumphant smirk. Doyoung has to catch himself on his elbows before their faces collide.

“So not fair,” he says, to which Taeyong sticks out a mocking tongue. Doyoung snorts and looks down at Taeyong with a wide grin for a moment, sharing amused laughs with Taeyong’s unnecessary breaths, then clambors back to his feet.

Taeyong behaves for the rest of the time it takes Doyoung to get ready, watching quietly from the bed with a pillow hugged against his chest as Doyoung fusses with his hair.

It’s been a little over a month since Doyoung brought up the topic of Taeyong having his own clothes, so the thought had long since slipped from Taeyong’s mind. Time is hard to keep track of without an internal clock regulating your body; for him, the conversation may as well have been eons ago. So it’s a lovely surprise when Doyoung comes home from work one day and opens the package that Taeil had brought in that afternoon that had been _taunting_ Taeyong for hours— just sitting there on the kitchen table, brown outer paper tempting him to peek in and view its contents.

He resisted, though, and he’s glad that he did. It makes the gift inside so much more special.

“This is really for me?” he asks, blinking up at Doyoung from where he kneels on the floor like he still doesn’t believe what Doyoung’s already told him three times. In his hands is a distressed denim jacket, perfectly oversized for his frame with rips and strings and hints of acid wash all over the place. Stylishly disheveled; cool, hip— whatever living humans call it nowadays.

“It’s yours,” Doyoung says. “I know it took a long time to get here, sorry.” He reaches under his bed and feels around for something. “And also…” He pulls out a small paper bag with a _hah!_ “These, too.”

Taeyong carefully sets his new jacket back in its box and takes the slightly crumpled bag. He tears the pink sticker taping the bag shut and empties its contents onto the floor. Out comes an assortment of fabric markers, safety pins, colorful patches and thread— the makings of a proper arts and crafts project.

“You can just wear the jacket as is, if you want,” Doyoung explains, “but I’ve seen you studying fashion like you’re trying to pass a test. I thought that maybe—if you feel like it, I mean—you could customize it. Make it your own.”

Taeyong clutches the markers tightly in his hands. _His._ “I’d really like that,” he says, voice coming out much smaller than he intended; gentle but genuine smile on his face.

Doyoung feels his chest swell with joy at Taeyong’s reaction; pride at giving a perfect gift thanks to his stellar deductive skills, of course.

Doyoung does pretty much all of the cooking at the apartment, so when Taeil says he’ll be at Jungwoo’s place the whole weekend, Doyoung fully expects to come home Friday evening to a kitchen that hasn’t been used since breakfast; not a pan out of place or a hint of warmth left lingering on the stovetop. He’ll order a pizza, he thinks, but as soon as he swings the front door open, all thoughts of delivery waft out of his mind as a barrage of delicious, inviting smells greet him at the threshold and pull him inside. As he locks the door behind him, he hears a busy clamoring coming from the kitchen.

“Taeyong?” he calls, confused and a bit nervous at what he might see once he turns the corner.

Taeyong pops his head around the wall so suddenly, he almost bumps into Doyoung. “Welcome back!” he greets, as usual. Unusual, is the assortment of dishes being cooked all at once behind him.

“What’s all this?” Doyoung asks as he peruses around the stove and countertops, observing everything that’s going on. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Me neither,” Taeyong says with a grin. “I wanted to try, though, and it kind of just… came easy to me? I’m following recipes, but I feel like I know what I’m doing.” He hurries around Doyoung to stir something simmering in a large pot. “Do you think I was a chef in my past life?”

Doyoung nabs a piece of spicy, glazed meat from a plate on the table with his fingers and eats it; eager yet cautious. His eyebrows disappear up under his hair. “You might have been,” he says, and goes back in for another one.

“Really?” Taeyong asks excitedly, flying over to Doyoung with stars in his eyes. “It’s really good?”

Doyoung nods and strokes Taeyong’s hair with his clean hand. “It is,” he assures.

“That’s a relief,” Taeyong says, and he really does look like some pressure has been lifted from his shoulders. “I can’t eat, so I can’t taste. Now let’s hope everything else comes out okay, too.”

 _‘Oh,’_ Doyoung thinks. _‘That’s right.’_ For a moment, Taeyong felt like a real, living roommate. “You don’t have to do all this just for me,” he says, though it’s more of a formality. Taeyong is already dishing everything into plates and bowls. “All this work when I’m the only one who can eat it…”

Taeyong just urges Doyoung down into a chair then sits across from him. “It’s my payment to you,” he says. “You took me in—you _spoke_ to me—and you let me stay as long as I want… That would have been more than enough, but you buy me gifts and treat me like a friend, too. I wanted to give back.”

Doyoung looks at the spread sitting in front of him—meat, stew, ramen; side dishes from his mom and freshly made rice—and he can’t remember the last time he was treated to a meal like this in his home away from childhood home. Warmth floods his body, like the steam from all this food is penetrating his every pore.

“I should have done this sooner,” Taeyong admits, biting at a thumb nail. “I’ve already been here for so long…”

Doyoung shakes his head and reaches across the table to pull Taeyong’s hand away from his mouth. “This is a treat,” he says. “Thank you.” He piles a little bit of everything into his bowl at first, and it’s shockingly amazing. Despite Taeyong being unable to taste test as he went, nothing is too bland or overly salted; every bite has his taste buds singing for more. He hungrily goes back in again and again—stuffing himself with a feast made in his humble honor—as Taeyong watches happily with his chin in his hands.

“Can I go clean the kitchen yet?” Taeyong asks, amused. They’ve been sitting on the couch for the better part of an hour with a random drama episode playing on the TV in front of them as Doyoung _“digests”_ and they relax— Doyoung being full in the literal sense; Taeyong in the metaphorical, joyful sense.

“No,” Doyoung mumbles, slouching further against the cushions and leaning his weight on Taeyong’s hip. “I’m never moving again, so you’re not allowed to move either.”

Taeyong snorts and rubs at Doyoung's stomach. “Ooh, did the baby eat too much?” he coos.

“Yes,” Doyoung says, wrapping Taeyong’s arm in a hug.

Taeyong phases through the couch and floats towards the kitchen, making Doyoung flop onto his side with a groan. “We should put the leftovers in the fridge,” he calls over his shoulder. “You’re the one who’ll have a problem if you get food poisoning.”

Doyoung grimaces and finally pulls himself off the couch. “Fine,” he says, “but I’m cleaning. You did the cooking, so you can rest.”

“I don’t need to rest,” Taeyong says with a playful lilt to his voice.

Doyoung grabs a dish towel and tosses it at Taeyong so he can wipe down the table. “You better take me up on this offer. I don’t like to move, normally.”

“Alright, alright.”

Ten minutes later, the table is cleared, food is packed into airtight containers, and Doyoung is elbow-high in a sink full of suds. The smaller plates are sitting in the dishrack to dry, but the pots and pans take a bit more effort. And water. Lots of water. Doyoung sticks his tongue out in discomfort when a glob splashes onto his shirt and all over the counter as he pours a pot’s worth of soapy water down the drain.

“You’re making a bigger mess than I did,” Taeyong remarks from behind.

Doyoung grabs the dish soap and squeezes it onto the pan that Taeyong had cooked the meat in. This will be his second time scrubbing off the charred sauce stuck to the bottom. “My mess is a _clean_ mess,” he says.

Taeyong hums. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

Doyoung smiles innocently. “Come here, I’ll show you.”

Taeyong knows it’s a trick but steps closer to Doyoung anyway, and he laughs when Doyoung lops a handful of bubbles right at him. They land in his hair, hardly visible over the white color except in places where light reflects off of each bubble like little diamonds adorning his crown.

“Oh,” Taeyong says, “so it’s like that.”

“It is indeed.”

What ensues is probably childish, but definitely necessary. Nearly a third of the dish soap is turned into mounds of foaming bubbles that go flying back and forth across the kitchen like a snowball fight indoors. Skin, clothes, hair— nothing is off limits. Well, almost nothing. ( _“No flying allowed!”_ ). The floor shines with soap and Doyoung stumbles more than once. ( _“Use your legs, human”_ ). The water has long since been turned off, but their clothes and hair still get soaked from the spray that follows each time they scoop bubbles out of the sink. They laugh and shout and beg for mercy, then holler in victory after successful counterattacks.

Finally—sink emptied of ammo and exhaustion taking over Doyoung’s limbs—they call a truce.

Taeyong takes a good look at Doyoung and bursts out laughing. “Your butt is wet,” he snickers.

“Yeah, yeah— I get it. I fell,” Doyoung says in a mocking tone. “How about you, huh?” He takes hold of Taeyong’s wrist and pulls him close. “Look at you.” He moves his hands to Taeyong’s hair, which is sticking up in all directions from how quickly he flew to avoid some of Doyoung’s throws, and smooths it down. Soon his fingers travel over Taeyong’s ears and along his jawline, wiping water droplets away.

Taeyong smiles. “I bet you look worse.”

“You’d lose that bet for sure,” Doyoung scoffs. He brushes his thumbs over the bubbles covering Taeyong’s cheeks. “You could have phased through all of this.”

Taeyong shrugs. “That wouldn’t be fair.” He closes his mouth as one of Doyoung’s thumbs swipes over his lips.

“Oh, _now_ you wanna act like a good sportsman,” Doyoung says, but he doesn’t stop gently cleaning Taeyong’s face.

In turn, Taeyong peels the hem of Doyoung’s shirt away from his body and rings out the water pooling inside its fabric. He puckers his lips in a pout. “I’m always good.”

Doyoung holds Taeyong’s cheeks. “Yeah? Why don’t we go again and see how fair you play.”

Taeyong laughs, clear and bright, and tugs at Doyoung’s shirt. “Please, no,” he says. “For your safety…”

“Oh _my_ safety?” Doyoung echoes with a grin. He squishes Taeyong’s cheeks; tugs and mushes them around freely.

Taeyong laughs and laughs, for they both know that he could float right through Doyoung’s hold and take him down in a second, but neither say it out loud. “Okay, I surrender,” Taeyong finally says, gripping Doyoung’s wrists.

“Thought so,” Doyoung sniffs triumphantly. He hasn’t stopped smiling; his cheeks are sore. He wonders if his face—undoubtedly flushed and shining in exhilaration—looks as Taeyong’s does. Levity dancing in his eyes, mouth curled up in a silly grin; is he imagining it, or is there a light pink dusting across his nose? No, that shouldn’t be possible; but he swears... Doyoung holds that giddy face gently between his palms, as if letting go will break the moment and lose the feeling of blissful exhaustion forever. If he could just get a little closer, maybe—

Outside, a car horn honks. It’s loud and it reverberates through the lamp-lit streets and it brings Doyoung to his senses with an internal screech of tires and the smell of burned rubber. He quickly drops his hands and takes a step back. He can’t tell if Taeyong is shocked by the noise or… Or something else.

“I’ll, uh…” Doyoung mutters, looking around for the dish cloth. He spots it by the drying plates and snatches it up. “I’ll finish cleaning in here. You should change. You can’t get sick, but wet clothes must not be comfortable, even for you.”

Taeyong gives him a slight chuckle—the kind you do when you just need a situation to blow over; breathless. “You too,” he says, hovering in the direction of the bedroom. “Don’t be too long.”

Doyoung nods. “Yeah.”

｀、ヽ｀ヽ｀、ヽ

Before either of them realize it, Taeyong is celebrating six months of enjoying _life_ at Doyoung’s apartment. They don’t do much to commemorate the milestone. Taeyong can’t eat, so the only food bought for the occasion is a box of half a dozen donuts that Doyoung had to share with Taeil. Jungwoo is visiting their place today so Taeyong keeps to himself, silently observing from the side, while the three humans socialize, until Jungwoo and Taeil finally head out later that afternoon. Night is nice: Doyoung turns on a movie and lets Taeyong lay his head in his lap, occasionally toying with Taeyong’s surprisingly soft snow white hair as Taeyong reacts to the film with a plethora of small, cute noises.

When Doyoung thinks about it, though, Taeyong isn’t really living all that much— hypothetically, of course. For the most part, he’s confined to an apartment just big enough for two people to live in while only running into each other some of the time. They have a balcony that Taeyong sometimes relaxes on—like a cat sprawled out in the sun—and once or twice he’s walked around the block while Doyoung was at work, but he admitted that he’s too afraid to venture farther on his own. _“I don’t want to get lost again,”_ he’d said.

And Doyoung can’t help but feel guilty for keeping Taeyong tethered to this place. Sure, he’s done his best to entertain a ghost roommate whenever he’s home, but Taeyong probably wants to see more than the same eggshell walls over and over again, day after day.

“They’re gonna kiss,” Taeyong gasps from Doyoung’s lap as the female leads on screen stare longingly into each other’s eyes.

Doyoung looks down at him.

“Hey,” Doyoung says, nudging Taeyong’s head gently with a thigh. “Do you wanna go to work with me tomorrow?”

Taeyong’s attention diverts from the romance on TV as he rolls onto his back and blinks up at Doyoung. “Like, go _with_ you?” he asks.

Doyoung snorts. “What else could I mean?” He brushes hair back from Taeyong’s forehead, then lets it fall back into place. “I want to show you where I go, what I do.”

“Yes,” Taeyong says, eyes practically sparkling. “I’d like that.”

It’s a little awkward commuting to work with an invisible partner. Doyoung has to leave headphones in so anyone who bothers to spare him a glance will think he’s speaking on the phone rather than talking to himself. When he enters the bus, he pretends to drop his transit card to give Taeyong time to board too, and he silently prays the entire ride that an unsuspecting stranger won’t try to sit in the window seat he’d left “empty.” Taeyong is already enjoying himself, though. He’d zoomed around every inch of sidewalk on their way to the bus stop like a puppy let off his leash for the first time, and he stares intently out the bus window as people and scenery pass them by; he doesn’t want to miss a single thing.

“It’s so much different now,” Taeyong says as the bus slows for a yellow light. “Before, when I was wandering on my own, I was scared of everything. The world just felt so _big_ — I didn’t know where to go, or what to do... I was all alone and it was intimidating.” He finally peels his face away from the window and settles back into his seat. His hand slips easily over Doyoung’s. “But I can enjoy it today.”

Doyoung twists his hand so he can hold Taeyong’s palm against his own, not caring who might see the motion.

When they reach the park Doyoung always cuts through, Taeyong perks up in realization. As soon as he steps off the bus, he soars across freshly mowed grass and weaves through joggers and other commuters; pet owners and families. He laughs at the dogs that bark up at him and twirls over the water in the large stone fountain at the park’s center. By the time Doyoung walks over to him, Taeyong is grinning widely.

“This is where we met!” he says excitedly, and Doyoung’s heart thumps in his very human chest.

Doyoung rubs at his face as Jeno stands in between the two extra chairs in his office, clearly very eager; potentially ready to embarrass him at a moment’s notice.

“So which one is he sitting in?” Jeno asks.

Doyoung points at the left chair with a sigh, so Jeno sits in the right one.

“Hi!” Jeno says with a friendly smile. He turns his chair to face Taeyong’s and extends a hand.

Taeyong glances at Doyoung, who nods, so he leans forward and reciprocates Jeno’s welcoming gesture. Of course, Jeno can’t feel it, though.

“Are we shaking hands?” he asks Doyoung.

Doyoung shrugs. “I guess? His hand is going through yours, though.”

Still, Jeno looks enamored at the idea of unifying with a ghost. “Oh wow,” he says. “Oh, it’s so nice to meet you, Taeyong! I’m Jeno. Doyoung’s told me _so_ much about you— he doesn’t shut up, really.”

 _“Okay,”_ Doyoung interrupts.

Jeno pulls his arm back and folds his hands politely in his lap. “Has Doyoung shown you around the exhibits yet?” he asks. “We have some really nice outdoor areas too.”

“This isn’t a field trip,” Doyoung says. “I still have to work.” Taeyong looks at him with that _pout_ and he hears himself saying, “I’ll do it during lunch.”

“Can I come?” Jeno asks. “Please, hyung?” He clasps his hands together and, though he doesn’t see it, is supported by Taeyong mimicking his pose.

“He’s so cute,” Taeyong coos.

“He’s a menace,” Doyoung retorts.

“No he isn’t. You always gush about how good and sweet he is.”

“I do not _gush_.”

Taeyong raises an eyebrow.

_“I don’t gush.”_

Jeno giggles, and Doyoung almost forgot he was there. “You guys are funny,” he says. “I think.”

1 PM rolls around and Jeno shows up at Doyoung’s office again, right on the dot. There’s a smudge of sauce on his mouth indicating that he gobbled down his food quickly, clearly intent to not miss out on any time he can spend with Taeyong, and he starts babbling as soon as Doyoung assures him that Taeyong is walking right beside him. There’s a lull in customers around this time, especially during the work week, so they’re free to wander from exhibit to exhibit— without any odd glances, too, because all the security guards think Jeno is talking to Doyoung.

Doyoung might as well not be there, though, what with Jeno hogging Taeyong for himself. Jeno gives Taeyong the rundown of each room they enter and points out his personal favorite paintings and pieces, as though he can see the person he’s talking to. Taeyong clearly likes being treated in such a way, and he sometimes responds to Jeno with an affectionate smile even if the conversation is one-sided for both parties. Doyoung may feel a little left out—jealous, maybe—but seeing Taeyong with someone so important to him does kindle a happy warmth in his stomach.

They’ve made their way out to the garden now: a large, lush area bursting at the seams with colors from flowers and art installation pieces. A small, man made pond with lily pads and a family of ducklings sits beside a giant oak tree; ancient and strong and decorated in lanterns designed by children at a nearby hospital. They get off their feet and sit on a stone bench next to a marble carving of a Greek goddess, but before long, Jeno is called by another intern.

“We need your help inside,” she says from the veranda, so Jeno reluctantly departs.

Finally alone, Doyoung can feel himself relaxing. He wasn’t sure how this would go, bringing a ghost to work, but Jeno—though perhaps overly excited—did a good job of making Taeyong feel welcomed and quelling any of Doyoung’s worries.

“This place is really pretty,” Taeyong says. “I don’t know if I ever went to museums before, but I think I like them a lot.”

Doyoung strokes Taeyong’s wind-tousled hair. “You can come with me whenever you want,” he says.

They sit in comfortable silence, simply enjoying the breeze, the art, the ducklings; each other. Even when Taeyong decides to get a closer look at the lanterns and flies up the grand oak tree, Doyoung watches fondly. He feels no nervousness here; no urge to look around and make sure that his life stays normal and event-free. He’s with a ghost, but he can breathe. Taeyong carefully cups a colorful lantern in his hands and observes it with pure fascination at the life it represents, and for once, Doyoung feels blessed to have the otherworldly gift that he does.

After giving attention to every lantern, Taeyong swirls around the massive tree trunk as he descends back to the ground. Doyoung stands, stretches his back, and walks towards the shade of the tree. On his way he passes a bush of pale, blush pink hibiscus flowers and plucks one from its stem. When Taeyong’s feet touch the grass once more, Doyoung tucks the flower behind his ear.

“What’s this for?” Taeyong asks, reaching up to feel the petals resting against his hair. The flower is almost the same color as his mysterious locks, only slightly pinker with a brighter, more vibrant red center.

Doyoung doesn’t know, really. He just felt like doing it. “It suits you,” he settles on.

Taeyong looks down, visibly flustered, then a crop of forget-me-nots draws his attention left. He crouches down and carefully picks a small bunch of the little, clustered blooms and straightens back up. Again, Doyoung swears he sees a pink tint to his sharp cheeks. Taeyong places the blue and yellow flowers behind one of Doyoung’s ears.

“There,” he says. “Now we match.”

A few feet away, Jeno simply smiles his crescent-eyed smile and turns on his heel to head back inside.

Their commute home takes longer than it did that morning due to after-work traffic, but neither of them mind. They don’t say much, but it’s okay. Taeyong just watches the world pass outside the bus window and Doyoung observes him while guarding both of their flowers in his lap, attention only averted when he gets a text message.

 _[ did taeyong have fun today? ^^ ]_ Jeno asks.

 _[ yeah ]_ Doyoung replies. _[ he liked you a lot too ]_

_[ !!! ]_

A pause.

_[ you looked really happy today hyung ]_

Doyoung is taken aback. _[ did i? ]_

_[ yeah! i think he’s really special to you. ]_

Doyoung sees where this is going, and he doesn’t know if he wants it to make it there.

_[ are you hesitating? ]_

_[ jeno he’s a ghost. ]_

_[ so? ]_

_[ ?? i can’t. ]_

_[ who says you can’t? :] ]_

Doyoung steals a glance at Taeyong, who meets his gaze through the reflection of the window and smiles at him. Doyoung turns his phone over, face down, in his lap and toys with velvety flower petals instead.

After such an overwhelming day of sights, sounds, and experiences, even Taeyong—who needs no sleep—seems lethargic once they’ve returned home. He changes into comfortable clothes and is content with spending the evening curled up in Doyoung’s bed, relaxing, as Doyoung eats dinner with Taeil. By the time Doyoung enters the room, Taeyong looks ready to shut his eyes and drift off into subconscious fantasy lands.

Doyoung changes into his pajamas and sits on the bed next to Taeyong, who actually yawns. He laughs and strokes Taeyong’s hair. “Tired?” he asks softly, gently; so as not to alert Taeil, he tells himself.

Taeyong nods and presses closer into Doyoung’s touch. “I’m happy, though,” he says. His voice is a bit rougher now; gravely with a sleepy drawl. “Thank you for showing me around.”

Doyoung’s chest feels tight. He can feel hatred growing in his stomach, directed at himself. Why hadn’t he thought about Taeyong’s wants sooner? He slides his hand from Taeyong’s hair to his cheek; smooth and just warm enough to pass as human. His thumb strokes against ghostly skin.

“Do you want to go anywhere else?” he asks.

Taeyong looks as though he hadn’t expected to be accompanied outside again after today, and it pains Doyoung immensely. “With you?” he asks, appearing hopeful.

“Who else?” Doyoung snorts, tapping Taeyong’s cheek.

Taeyong laughs and grips Doyoung’s hand with both of his own. “I’d like to go a lot of places with you,” he says, and his eyes are so soft—his tone so vulnerable and trusting—that Doyoung thinks, in that moment, he could quit his job and take Taeyong anywhere his non-existent heart desires.

Taeyong laces their fingers together and pulls slightly; not enough to move Doyoung, but enough to suggest…

_Fuck it._

Doyoung leans down and presses his lips to Taeyong’s with hardly any pressure, as if he would suddenly phase through Taeyong’s form; no longer able to touch his body. He doesn’t fall in, though. He can feel Taeyong’s soft lips—can feel him kissing back—and as he presses harder, he can feel Taeyong’s mouth give way.

It isn’t a messy kiss. It isn’t rough or passionate or deep. It’s a slow push and pull; small sighs and patient, languid slides of wet lips. Doyoung squeezes their palms together and Taeyong drags his free hand up over Doyoung’s shoulder until it rests at the back of his neck. Their bodies shift naturally—Doyoung moving onto the bed and hovering over Taeyong—and they kiss and kiss until Doyoung’s human lungs need air.

When they part, the room feels hot. Doyoung leans his forehead against Taeyong’s and stares into dark pupils that may not reflect life, but make him feel more alive than he’s ever been.

“Tomorrow,” Doyoung says; breathless, but he goes in for another kiss anyway. “We’ll go out tomorrow.”

Doyoung takes Taeyong to a movie that he’d seen a trailer for the day he hung out with Jeno. It’s a comedic action movie, and Taeyong loves it. Doyoung almost feels a smug sense of satisfaction at the fact that no one else in the theater can hear Taeyong’s infectious laugh but himself. Taeyong leans against Doyoung’s shoulder as he claps in hysterics, and in the darkness of the theater, Doyoung doesn’t mind holding his invisible body close.

Afterwards, they stop by a café so Doyoung can get some actual not-popcorn food in him. While they sit, someone comes up to their table and asks if they can take the empty chair across from Doyoung, and he can’t exactly say _“actually my ghost date is using that,”_ so Taeyong is left floating at Doyoung’s side. Doyoung is upset at first, but then Taeyong sits himself on the table, crosses his legs, and reaches down to brush hair behind Doyoung’s ear, and Doyoung blushes into his ham and cheese croissant.

They spend the evening walking down pedestrian-only streets of boutiques, restaurants, and hobby stores. The cobblestone walkway is lined with trees adorned in fairy lights, and decorative fountains and patches of flowers are scattered by designated seating areas. Occasionally, they pass buskers putting on shows. Doyoung wants to hold Taeyong’s hand in a romantic setting such as this, and so he does. Taeyong glances around at the other shoppers, but no one pays them any mind. It must not look very out of the ordinary for Doyoung’s arm to be swinging lightly at his side. Still, Taeyong steps closer to him so he can draw even less attention to himself. He can’t feel the crisp evening air, but he still pulls his jacket—the denim one that Doyoung gave him—securely around his body.

At the end of the shopping area, a man and a woman—both young; perhaps high school age—have drawn a large crowd with their impressive singing. He’s playing the keyboard while she strums an acoustic guitar, and together their voices meld into a beautiful harmony. Countless viewers have their phones out, recording and taking photos of the cover of a popular song they’re currently performing.

“Wow,” Taeyong hums, “they’re really good.” Fairy lights glow yellow in his wide, warm eyes.

Doyoung leans in and kisses him in the moonlight, like a perfectly placed love story.

Taeyong pulls back quickly. “There are people!” he whispers, though nobody would hear him anyway. There are people—a mass of people—but their focus is elsewhere.

“No one is looking at us,” Doyoung says, and he kisses Taeyong again.

“He’s showing off his feathers!” Taeyong says excitedly, pointing at the peacock displaying his vibrant tail in the enclosure before them. “Aw, the lady isn’t looking though.” A peahen walks by, completely uninterested, and both Taeyong and Doyoung laugh at the rejection.

It doesn’t take a genius like Taeil to see that Taeyong loves animals, and Doyoung was right in thinking that he’d love the zoo. They’re making a point to stop and see every animal, and it’s a real workout walking this much, but it’s a small price to pay to spend a day making Taeyong happy. He probably looks silly, seemingly wandering around the zoo by himself, but honestly, he hasn’t noticed if anyone’s given him strange looks. To Doyoung, all that matters is Taeyong; excited and enamored and _living_.

When they stop by a big cat-themed eatery, Taeyong picks out a burger set for Doyoung to try: the bun has two blobs on it that sort of resemble ears, and a sugar cookie with black and orange tiger stripes iced on top comes as a complimentary dessert. Around them, children chase each other with stuffed animals.

“Should we get souvenirs?” Doyoung asks as he chews on a fry.

They leave the zoo that evening with matching jade necklaces carved into the images of their favorite animals they saw that day: an otter for Doyoung, and an elephant for Taeyong. Doyoung wears both of them as they leave the shop until they can find a secluded place for Taeyong to put his on. As they walk, he feels the weight of Taeyong’s necklace like an anvil tied around his neck, anchoring deep into his chest.

After weeks of begging from Jeno, Doyoung finally agrees to a game night. Taeil is over at Jungwoo’s again, so the apartment is free to host ghost-safe activities. Taeyong helps Doyoung pull board games from the hall closet and set up snacks and drinks for the humans, and by the time Jeno arrives at 6, a cheerful vibe is already in the air.

“Taeyong should go first,” Jeno says once they’re all seated around Monopoly.

“No, you’re our guest,” Taeyong says, and when Doyoung relays this to Jeno, Jeno looks like he could cry.

Each time it’s Taeyong’s turn to roll the dice, Jeno watches with rapt attention. He cannot get enough of seeing Taeyong’s little metal dog move around the board on its own, and his amusement doesn’t wane even when Taeyong blocks Jeno’s real estate strategy by plopping one of his blue houses down on a property that Jeno had been eying the whole game.

Doyoung and Jeno eat and drink until they feel fuzzy inside, and Taeyong hasn’t stopped smiling since before Jeno arrived.

“I like being a part of your life with him,” he whispers to Doyoung when Jeno gets up to refill the chip bowl. Doyoung steals a kiss in response, but he isn’t quick enough.

“Did you just kiss?” Jeno asks with a loud gasp. “That’s _so_ cute.”

Taeyong throws his head back in a laugh and there may as well be stars twinkling around him, Doyoung is so blinded.

It’s a Wednesday, and Doyoung is staying home from work. He could hear the surprise in their receptionist’s voice when he called in “sick” because he’s known to work hard even through colds, but he woke up that morning and saw Taeyong curled against his side, smiling up at him, and he knew what was more important to him in that moment. He can catch up on emails tomorrow.

They rarely have a full day at home without a roommate that could walk in on them at any time, so they decide to utilize the kitchen—open space right in the middle of the apartment—to bake. As Doyoung is the only one who will be eating their creation, he decides on blueberry muffins. He measures out all the dry ingredients and dumps them in a bowl, then follows with the wet.

“I want to mix it,” Taeyong says, so Doyoung hands him the wooden spoon and begins to wash all their used dishes and measuring cups.

After a couple minutes, Taeyong asks, “Can you get the blueberries? I think the batter’s ready.”

Doyoung dries his hands and passes Taeyong on his way to the fridge. “Should we just use all of them?” he wonders out loud. The container is pretty small.

_CRASH._

Doyoung jolts and nearly hits his head on the freezer door as he stands quickly. “What happened?” he asks, blinking at where Taeyong stands— shocked expression on his face and bowl of batter face down on the floor.

“I, uh…” Taeyong mutters, eyes traveling down to the mess seeping over laminate flooring. “My hands slipped.”

Doyoung lets out a relieved sigh and shuts the refrigerator door. “At least you’re okay,” he says, though of course Taeyong would be. “No worries, we’ll just make it again. We have plenty of ingredients.”

Taeyong frowns. “Sorry.”

“Hey,” Doyoung says, pecking Taeyong’s cheek. “It was an accident. It’s no big deal.”

That night, once Doyoung is showered and they’re both in comfortable pajamas, Doyoung jumps onto the bed with a content sigh. He stretches his arms above his head and squirms to get under the covers.

“Maybe five muffins was too much,” he admits, rubbing at his stomach. “I feel like I’m gonna pop.”

Taeyong laughs and turns off the lights. He doesn’t need the moonlight coming through the window to see where he’s going, but he does enjoy how the lovely blue-tinted glow dances across Doyoung’s features. Flying over Doyoung, he kisses those moonshine lips.

“Goodnight,” Taeyong says softly.

Doyoung hums and pats the empty side of the bed.

Taeyong floats down into his usual space— and continues right through. He panics for a moment—feels like he’s tumbling through the Earth itself—before pulling himself back into view. Tentatively, he reaches down and the bed is solid for him once more.

“Where did you go?” Doyoung asks, smiling sleepily. He pulls Taeyong against his side and covers him with the blankets.

“I… I didn’t mean to do that,” Taeyong says.

Doyoung seems a little more awake when he turns to face Taeyong. “You phased on accident?” he asks. “Has that ever happened before?”

Taeyong shakes his head. “It was such a weird— no, scary feeling. I was just _falling_.”

Doyoung kisses the top of Taeyong’s head. “Maybe you were too excited to sleep with me,” he jokes, and Taeyong scoffs back playfully, but the odd occurrence doesn’t leave either of their minds.

It’s only a few days before it happens again. Doyoung is in a rush for work—he could not be assed to get out of bed until the last minute today—and Taeyong can only watch as Doyoung runs around the apartment, grabbing his coat, his keys, and a leftover muffin for breakfast. Finally, once his shoes are on, he looks at Taeyong.

“Bye!” he says hurriedly. He goes in for a quick kiss— and nearly headbutts the wall. He barely catches himself with a hand against the plaster. When he turns around, Taeyong looks just as surprised as him.

Taeyong grabs Doyoung’s arm—reaches out in desperation—and he’s able to take hold of Doyoung’s sleeve. He kisses Doyoung properly and touches Doyoung’s cheek.

“Goodbye,” he says.

As he runs out the door, Doyoung wonders if he should text Ten and see what he knows about involuntary ghost mannerisms. Whatever is happening, he’s sure he and Taeyong can figure it out.

Taeyong isn’t home when Doyoung returns that night. Doyoung kicks off his shoes and heads slowly to his room. Halfheartedly, he tries to convince himself that Taeyong just went for a walk, but Taeyong knows what time he always comes back and makes sure to greet him every day. When he opens the door to a lonely bedroom, his heart begins to stutter in his chest. He drops his bag carelessly on the floor and shuts the door, leaning on it heavily. He never did get around to texting Ten.

The sun is setting outside, causing faint reds and oranges to cascade into the room, but to Doyoung, everything feels cold. Belatedly, he notices a folded piece of paper on the bed; stark white against navy blue sheets. He considers ignoring it, but that won’t make the truth any less real. The walk across his room has never felt so long.

The letter is a note. On the front, it simply says _“Doyoung.”_ He opens it with surprisingly steady hands. He already knows that Taeyong is gone.

_“Welcome home!_

_I wish I could say that in person, but I have a feeling that I won’t be able to. I don’t know how to explain it, but something is changing. My body feels different. My form feels like it’s shaking, constantly. Is this how ghosts pass on? I think there’s something calling me, pulling me away, and I can’t fight it. I just know that I can’t. So before I go, I want to thank you._

_Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Thank you for letting me into your life, your home, your heart. Maybe, in my past life, I didn’t deserve to be treated so well, but I’m happy that I found you now, as the current me. Every day I was with you was the best life I could ask for. If we are ever destined to meet again, I’ll wait for you as long as it takes._

_Taeyong.”_

Doyoung sits, weakly, on the bed. His shoulders sag and his eyes pour tears down his neck, but he doesn’t care. Snot drips out his nose and he coughs on spit that builds in his throat, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no one around to see him in such a pathetic state. He stares down at the letter, vision growing blurry until the tears overflow, offering him a brief moment of clarity before they well up again. It’s only on his third read of the letter that he notices another line scrawled at the bottom of the paper— a final note, an afterthought, perhaps something Taeyong wasn’t sure he should say until the very last minute.

_“I love you.”_

｀、ヽ｀ヽ｀、ヽ

“Mr. Lee, can you hear me?”

_What?_

“Look, his eyes are opening! Someone go get my mother!”

_Mother? Who is…_

“Mr. Lee, do you know where you are?”

All Taeyong knows is that it’s bright—so very bright—and he clenches his eyes shut as soon as his brain registers the desire. He hears someone say _“It’s alright, he’ll need some time to adjust”_ and, the longer he waits, the more present he feels. Slowly, he realizes that he’s laying in a bed of some sort and that various things are hooked up to his arms, chest, head. His throat hurts, like an intrusion had been resting inside it long enough that its removal can be noticed. The room is so _loud_ — electronic beeps, muffled voices, footsteps wandering everywhere.

“Taeyong, I’m here,” a woman says. He feels a gentle, familiar touch on his hand. “Noona is here.”

_Sister?_

“Mr. Lee, I know it’s bright but we need to check your vision,” a man says. Taeyong opens his eyes and all he sees is more blinding light. There’s a click of a pen; the scratching of tip against paper. “Do you know your name?” he’s asked.

He does. “Taeyong. Lee Taeyong.”

Another woman bursts into the room and sobs at his side, and he knows that this is his mother. He doesn’t know how much time passes or how many tests are done on him as he lays there, but when he finally feels more human—eyes open, senses less overwhelming, memories returning—it’s night outside.

“So far, so good,” the doctor says. “Of course, he’ll need rehab, physical therapy— it takes time to recover from a coma. But he is remarkably healthy. His chart shows that he practically has the body of someone who’s been walking among us this entire time.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” his mother says, collapsing back into her seat.

Taeyong’s sister kisses his forehead. “We’ll be with you every step of the way,” she promises.

The doctor did not lie— he maybe even undersold it. Taeyong is technically healthy, but he has to re-train his body to function like it once did. He must master walking, eating, bathing; months of care go into rehabilitating and relearning how to _live_. He meets with a therapist, too, and it helps him grapple with the reality of escaping death, but whenever he’s asked if he remembers anything from his coma—be it dreams or sounds heard from the real world—he draws a blank. It’s frightening to know that nearly a year of his life passed by without him knowing.

His family is a tremendous support, his dog—Ruby—a godsend, and his friends make sure that he is never short on entertainment and updates on everything he missed out on. He feels loved, and he is grateful for it.

“I wrote you a list of the best movies you need to catch up on,” Johnny says one afternoon as they sit in Taeyong’s bedroom around a plate of fruit his mother had cut for them. “I think my favorite was this one about a diamond heist— it was really cool, but also _hilarious_.”

Taeyong nods around a mouthful of melon. “The one with Gong Yoo?”

“Yeah!” Johnny says. “How did you know?”

Taeyong pauses; thinks for a moment. He shrugs. “Someone else must have told me?”

Later that week, when Yuta comes over, Taeyong once again knows something that he’s not sure he should. Yuta’s showing him videos on his phone of anything he can think of—food, puppies, soccer games—and finally reaches the topic of music. He’s scrolling through trending videos when he stops at an upload of some buskers with hundreds of thousands of views.

“Oh, this is really good,” he says, clicking on it. “It’s a cover.”

Acoustic music fills the room, soon followed by a wonderful harmony of a man’s and a woman’s voices. They’re singing on a cobblestone street with fairy lights dancing in the background. Around them, a large crowd of people have gathered. For some reason, Taeyong knows these people— not personally, but he knows of them. Somehow, he’s seen them before. That’s impossible, though, because on the date this video was filmed, he was lying unconscious in a hospital bed.

After about four months of rehab, Taeyong is finally feeling more or less like his old self again. There are still things he shouldn’t do, but running a marathon is definitely not high on his to-do list anyway. He begins to go out farther from home now, wanting to assimilate back into the world after spending so long cooped up in a hospital and then in his own neighborhood. When his sister offers to take him on a drive, he quickly agrees.

“Noona, are you sure we’re not lost?” he teases after they’ve spent an hour in the car.

“We aren’t!” she insists. “You can’t get lost if you’re not trying to go anywhere. Oh, oh— take a picture of that dog over there! It’s so cute.”

Taeyong laughs, but when they stop at a red light, he takes out his phone and focuses on the Shiba Inu trotting down the sidewalk. He snaps a few photos, following the dog with his lens, and notices that it’s heading into a park.

His heart pounds.

He places a hand over his chest, concerned that this is a medical issue, but the sudden pulse withers away into waves of butterflies. He’s looking at a park he’s never seen before, and his nerves are going wild.

“You alright?” his sister asks.

“Yeah,” he says. As the light turns green and they pull away from the park, Taeyong cranes his neck and catches sight of a large stone fountain.

Taeyong still has so much information to take in every day, but the one thought his mind always wanders back to is that park. The feeling he got when he saw it… It didn't feel normal. Something is pulling him there, and he doesn’t know if he can fight it. He decides to return to the park and see what happens. If his heart doesn’t flutter again, then it meant nothing. If it does...

Part of him feels ridiculous traveling so far on a weird hunch, but what does he have to lose? He boards his first bus with nothing more than a strange sensation and a promise that he’d text his mother that he’s okay every thirty minutes, and two hours later he’s standing in front of fields of grass, bicycle paths, and dogs nipping at his heels.

“Okay,” he says to himself, breathing out steadily. That feeling is back, but it’s less frightening now; perhaps because he’s spent so much time expecting it to come.

It’s a rather nice park, so he decides to take a walk around. Nothing about it seems all that special, though, and after ten minutes of going in circles, he gives up and sits on the edge of the stone fountain. He closes his eyes.

_What am I doing?_

When he opens his eyes, a crowd of people fresh from the neighboring crosswalk are passing through the park on the main cement path. His gaze roams lazily over the faces of strangers, taking in their appearances: office suit, pencil skirt, flowy dress, messenger bag—

His heart pounds again; so hard it makes him gasp. He stares at the retreating crowd but the moment is gone, and he remains confused.

If his family finds him weird for taking so many bus trips alone, they don’t show it. They’re happy to give him the freedom that he’d been deprived of for so long, on the one condition that he stays safe. They probably think he’s traveling around town and taking it all in, but his destination is always that park.

Something is happening in his brain— something he can’t explain. He _remembers_. Every day that he walks down the streets surrounding the park, a flash of a memory comes flying back to him. _A collision; a kitchen; a smile._ He goes farther into town. _A necklace; a stroll; a hug._ Changes direction, goes the other way. _A flower; a board game; a kiss._

There’s a name. A name rests at the tip of his tongue—tingles on his lips and sounds like music to his ears—but he can’t recall it. He imagines a person... faceless and shapeless, but everything he could ever want; home. Someone is here, someone is _in this place_ that he desperately needs to find.

The days go by and Taeyong pieces more and more together. They were in love. Well, he knew he was, but they never said it to each other. They thought they had time. He cared for Taeyong; comforted him, accepted him, cherished him. Taeyong can see glimpses of the apartment they shared if he closes his eyes tight and tries as hard as he can to cling on to fading images. He sees— he sees a museum.

He sprints through the park, now so familiar to him, and runs through the crosswalk he just knows leads to where he needs to go. One block down, second building, up the steps— The doors are locked.

“Can I help you?” a voice calls.

Taeyong turns and sees a young man with a friendly face on the sidewalk down below. This isn’t who he’s looking for, but he doesn’t feel wrong either.

“We’re closed for the day,” the man says. “You can come back tomorrow at 10 AM.”

Taeyong slowly drops his hands from the door handles. He descends the stairs, putting one foot robotically in front of the other, until his eyes land on a lanyard around the man’s neck with an employee badge attached to it and he freezes.

_Jeno._

A burst of colors explodes in front of Taeyong’s eyes; explosions of night and day and everything in between. Memories rush back like scenes in a movie, speeding past him on a reel of forgotten dreams. In what can be no more than three seconds, Taeyong relives his most precious eternity.

He can’t breathe, but he runs anyway. He sees a bus up ahead and waves it down— he knows where it’s headed. Impatience burns through his veins as he watches the world go by outside the window. He gets off at a stop that feels like a key; the first step of returning to the place you want to go most. Ahead, he sees a building he never knew he missed so much.

Right as he approaches the front entrance, someone walks out. It’s Taeil. Taeyong knows Taeil. Taeil doesn’t know him, though, and merely gives him a brief nod before returning to reading the book in his hands. Behind him, the door is closing. Taeyong lurches forward and manages to catch it by the tips of his fingers before it locks itself shut. Inside, he bounds up four flights of stairs. His feet thump against the muted grey carpet of the hallway. He reaches a door and stops.

Breathes.

Knocks.

The seconds tick by and feel like hours. He can hear someone walking towards him. The door opens—it _finally_ opens—and Taeyong is staring into his eyes.

The name on his lips tickles. It makes him smile.

“Doyoung.”

Doyoung doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. He looks as though he’s trying to decipher if this is a fantasy or real life, and the idea of him missing Taeyong so much he sees him whenever he goes pains Taeyong immensely. Doyoung seems to notice that something’s different; Taeyong is more whole than he once was. He reaches out slowly and cups Taeyong’s burning cheek gently in his hand.

“Taeyong?” he asks, and his voice is music.

For the first time in Doyoung’s presence, tears fall from Taeyong’s eyes. He holds Doyoung’s hand against his face. They kiss right there in the hall, out in the open. If Taeil came back right now, or a neighbor opened their door, they’d be seen.

They’d be _seen._

“I love you,” Doyoung says; breathes desperately into Taeyong’s lips, like he’d been waiting to say it for eons.

“I love you,” Taeyong repeats.

“Why are you here?” Doyoung asks, finally giving Taeyong a chance to breathe because he needs to do that now. Doyoung’s eyes are brimming with love, but also fear; like he doesn’t believe this time will last either. But it will. Taeyong is never going away again.

“I think I left a jacket here,” Taeyong says, throat feeling tight. “I came to get it back.”

Doyoung lets out a choked laugh and pulls Taeyong inside the apartment, into his arms; into life.

**Author's Note:**

> you don't know how happy i am to finally write a pure, happy dotae fic!! i adore these two so much and i wish them nothing but love irl and in fiction ;;
> 
> a _huge_ thank you to the writing workshop gc for critiquing bits of this fic and giving me so much encouragement along the way. y'all have really helped me get back into the swing of things, and even if i'm unable to be consistent forever, i've remembered what it feels like to enjoy writing and the satisfaction that comes with creating something that i'm able to share with others ;; and thank you to the dotae week mods for being so cool and nice!!!
> 
>   
> say hi!  
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